Pictures, of Little Kerouac, back in

hands mine.  Now, able to write freely,

well as live.  Time left in poetry prison..  less

than 26 hours.  Would love to write with sentence,

paragraph, like my usual diarist standing.  But, I want

to follow through.  Need another

sip of

the Meritage.

Thirsty.

For propulsion.  Want 2B antagonized, rushed.. motivated.

That keeps writers HONEST.

What should my next test be?  Have to think.  Need book,

maximand, before week’s end.

Rain, finally back.  But I’m tired.  Waking early

for work, as always.  SO I can’t immerse fully in this

PM session.  No TV.. real writer moment.  One more

glass.  Hear the Cab talking.  Merlot, too.. Franc.

Stark Autonomy, on parallel street.  Teases–

On holiday.  Soon.  With her.  And me?

With notebook.  Logging each pitch in those wave-shore

meetings.  She provides a map, in her entries.  Why

DON’T I make time for her?  Those pages?  Am i

ill?  So immediate.  And still i stall.  Even this moderate

fall mocks my stride.  Could have another glass, but 4 1nce,

I need to illustrate a bit of discipline.. restraint, stance, presence.

 

I follow her.  But not what “follow” means today.

She’s above Now.  She’s eonian; geographic,

meteorological.  And me, I’m me.  Scribbling.

4 my Life.  Center sabotaged.  Sirens toward

a writer’s cover.. his canonized lover.  At 103.  Fevered incident.

 

12/11/12